


A Study in Love Letters

by ArkStationsLibrary



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, I don't know I just wanted to write fluff okay, Love Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:33:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkStationsLibrary/pseuds/ArkStationsLibrary
Summary: Lord Tewkesbury is lonely. So he writes Enola. And obsesses over her letters to him. And vice versa.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 24
Kudos: 127





	A Study in Love Letters

Lord Tewkesbury stays in London. His job requires it. That, and he prefers it that way. It puts distance between him and the Dowager. The woman that tried to kill him. His Grandmother, who he can no longer look at.

She should be in prison since she killed his father and tried to kill him too. But he took pity on her.

His days are filled with work. Writing reforms and laws and talking to old men who loathe his very existence because he reminds them of what they once were. Each morning, he begins his day with breakfast and a paper. Each week, there are new exploits. Exploits about her, detailed in print, that he scours the newspaper for daily.  
Enola has taken up residence at 230 Baker Street, surprisingly close to her own brother although he doubts the world-famous detective knows it. Briefly, he thought about sharing that information with him just for her protection but upon remembering how Enola took down Brown Bowler Hat, he thinks Enola can handle herself just fine. So he doesn’t.  
Though it doesn’t stop him from checking in on her himself. Which he does.

With an innocent enough letter.x

It happens one afternoon when he is supposed to be doing paperwork, and his mind is clouded with rules and regulations. He takes out a bit of parchment, and ink, and begins the letter he’s been putting off for months.

To Miss Holmes,  
I hope this letter finds you well after our last parting. I have read details of your recent cases in the newspapers. It seems you are fast becoming a world-class detective much like your brother! I’ve been meaning to call, but I’m afraid parliament keeps me rather busy as of late. Would you do me the honor of----

Lord Tewkesbury paused in the middle of his writing, to reread everything that he had just scribbled. Did he sound pretentious? Would she roll her eyes and call him a nincompoop as she had so viciously that first day he met her on the train? Should he crumple the letter up and start from scratch?

He chewed on his lip, the ink from his pen dripping onto the parchment.

Yes, Tewkesbury! You do sound like a nincompoop. Start over. She’s your friend, not one of your stuff shirt Lords that you work with. The voice in his head sounded like her and he wondered briefly if he was going crazy. Then, he shook his head, crossed the whole ridiculous letter out, and crumpled it angrily in his rubbish bin.

It took a few tries before he finally had the proper wording.

One that didn’t make him sound like a nincompoop.  
To My Dear Miss Holmes,  
It’s been months since we last parted. Work in parliament is interesting, but frightfully dull, and I could use a spot of cheering up with my dear consulting detective. Would you perhaps meet me for a spot of tea on Thursday, two weeks from today at The Baker Street Tea Room? The Marquis of Bottomshire eagerly awaits your response if you aren’t too busy saving London.  
Yours,  
The Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilweather

“Mr. Darby!” he calls for his secretary, an older gentleman who used to work for his father with salt and pepper hair and a mustache who seems annoyed to have to work for someone younger than him. He frequently hears ‘that’s not what how your father did things’ multiple times a day. Something he has chosen to ignore.

“Yes, your lordship?”

“Please, see that this is mailed post haste,” he stands up and hands him the letter, “and let me know when a response arrives as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course your lordship.” He sees the old mans eyes glance over the name on the envelope and he chooses to ignore his alarmed eyebrows at the sight of Enola’s name.

The Holmes brothers have made a name for themselves, and Enola has too by extension. There’s hardly a soul in London that doesn’t know it.

But Tewkesbury doesn’t care, because he’s taken the first step to seeing her again. And that’s all that matters.

Enola is being chased through an empty meat factory. It is closed for the evening, the workers long since gone home for the day. “Come out, come out, wherever you are Miss Holmes,” the hulking man chasing her calls. Her skirts are covered in mud from a puddle she ran through, making them heavier than they normally are. She cannot remember the last time she’s eaten as she’s been looking for a kidnapped Duchess for days.

She grabs one of the meat hooks from a slab that’s dangling from the ceiling and waits, anxiously, for the man that has been sent to kill her for snooping to come. She is hiding behind a wall and it is only moments before the large man appears before her, sneering.

“Time to die, Miss Holmes,” he says, a wooden bat in his hand.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you!” Enola says with a smile despite the fact that her heart is racing, her body is shaking, and she’s terrified out of her mind. Using the meat hook, she lifts it, and stabs her pursuer in the eye. The man howls in pain and Enola uses the opportunity to run.

When she gets far enough, Enola manages to get to safety long enough to catch her breath several blocks away. Her face is splattered with blood from her shoving the hook into the man’s eye and she knows she’s a mess by the way a woman mutters, “Urchin,” at her in disgust.

“Did you give him a fair shot, at least?” the question is posed by a familiar voice that Enola recognizes as her brothers. Not Mycroft, who thankfully hasn’t contacted her in months since her harrowing escape from the comportment school he tried sending her to.

“Sherlock,” she mutters. With a smile, she turns around to face him. “Brother.”

“Sister,” he says, his lips pressed into a thin line which is as near to a smile as Sherlock Holmes will get. There is an envelope in his hands, with a familiar wax seal on it that makes her pause.

Enola hugs him, and Sherlock stiffly pats her on the back. “What are you doing here?” she asks when she parts.

“I heard some young woman was causing a ruckus in the streets,” he explained, “Lestrade had six complaints. Including something about a broken cart?”

Enola coughed. “Yes, well, when you’re trying to run for your life you don’t tend to stop for things. Really, you’re just here about noise complaints?”

“No. Not that. This was delivered to my rooms by mistake. Seems that you, dear sister, are not so far from me. You couldn’t have let me know?”

She frowns. “Would you have told Mycroft?”  
Sherlock coughs. “Point taken. Do you know who the letter is from?”

It is Enola’s turn to cough this time. “You know. Or else you wouldn’t be asking.”

“Do you write him regularly, this Viscount of yours? Should I be worried about his intentions?”

Enola laughed. “Why? You don’t even worry about mine.”

Sherlock’s lips press into a thin, annoyed line. “Touché. Tea?”

“That would be lovely, brother.”

He offers her his arm, and hands her the letter. “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asks. Of course, he’s looking for some kind of reaction.

Enola only smiles. “Later.”

She knows why her brother went so far as to find her in the streets of London. She knows that there isn’t a chance that letter was delivered to him, rather intercepted. Her brothers want to know what is between her and the young Lord. They think they can marry her off and be rid of her. And the Lord is their ticket to that.

While Enola isn’t completely opposed to the idea…. Tewkesbury deserves better than a girl with mud on her petticoats from chasing after criminals. He is a Lord, and though he likes that she treats him like everybody else, that fact is not lost on Enola. She was not made to be some wilting flower by his side. She, as he had once so rightfully said, was made to fight. And that was what she intended to do for as long as she could.

Enola took tea with her brother, and they chatted about their investigations. He walked her home and only when she was certain her brother had gone did she open the letter. She skimmed it over and wrote a response.

And ignored the way her heart pounded at the word, yours.

To My Dear Viscount Marquess of Nincompoopshire,  
Well, I am terribly sorry to hear that you are finding the House of Lords frightfully dull. Of course, I will meet you for tea. Someone must keep you from becoming too self-important after all.  
Y-------  
She stared at what she was about to write. Yours. Her heart swelled inside her chest. It was too intimate a word. Biting her lip, she scribbled out the yours. But what to write?  
Happily,  
Enola

She then sent the letter herself, her heart pounding against her chest wildly the whole time to the post office and back.

When Lord Tewkesbury gets his letter, he reads it through several times to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He reads it through so many times it is beginning to wrinkle, and tear. And when his mother sees him reading it for the millionth time late one night in the parlor, she shakes her head at him.

“Dearest, it’s only a word.” This comes from his mother, drinking tea nearby.

“Happily,” he replies, “what on earth does happily mean? Who signs a letter happily? She---ugh! She’s the most frustrating creature ever to live, I swear!”

The Lady Tewkesbury chuckles at him and takes a sip of her tea. It is not the first time she has heard her son complain of Enola Holmes. She suspects it will not be her last. “Write her a reply,” she says, “to let you know that you look forward to the occasion, and put, your humble servant and see how she responds. It’s intimate, without being too forward.”

“Your humble servant?” Lord Tewkesbury says.

“Yes,” his mother says, “that’s how your father used to sign his letters to me.”

“Right. Right. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Thank you, mother.”

He gets up, kisses her on the cheek making her laugh, and then goes to his study to compose another letter.

To My Miss Holmes,  
Thank you for your response. I eagerly await our visit. I believe you are just the medicine I need.  
Your humble servant,

The Viscount Tewkesbury, The Marquess of Basilweather

The second letter finds Enola through Mycroft, of all people. Mycroft finds her as she is sneaking out of a brothel wearing men’s clothing. “My, dear sister,” her brother says, “have you fallen so far?”

Enola scowls at her oldest sibling. “Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

“Something got delivered to my mail, accidentally,” he says, “I believe it is from---”

He holds up a letter, and Enola snatches it. She squints at him. “Are you and Sherlock doing this?”

“Doing what?” her brother asks, an innocent smile on his face that isn’t quite so innocent at all.

“Writing these? If you are, I swear, I will scoop your eyeballs out with a tea spoon.”

“Vivid imagery, dear sister. But no. These are from the Lord himself.”

“Why do they keep on getting delivered to you?” Enola asks.

“Mistake, surely,” he says, but Enola doesn’t think it is a mistake. Not at all. She thinks this is planned, and it is her brother’s way of keeping an eye on her. She hates it. But even Enola can’t deny the way her heart flutters when she opens a letter from him.

“Thank you for the delivery, brother,” she says, “goodbye, brother.”

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Mycroft asks.

“Not here,” she replies, “not in a million years.”

Then, she makes her way home. Only when she is alone in her study safely does she open it. She reads it through at least a million times, and stares at the signature. Your humble servant. Oh, Tewkesbury……..

“What are you doing to me?” she mutters to herself.

There is a series of letters exchanged in the days leading up to the tea.

Dear Miss Enola,  
Spent the day getting lectured on honor and dignity by a man in a white wig with hair coming out of his nostrils. I know I shouldn’t be rude but it’s awfully hard to take someone seriously when all you can think about is pulling his wig over his head and yanking out the hair from his nostrils. Lord Odious as I’ve decided to refer to him keeps on putting down my ideas and calls me “boy”.  
I’ve half a mind to stab him with my pen. If I do, will you help me bury the body?  
With Warm Affection,  
The Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilweather

Dear Viscount Vomitrocious,  
While I can appreciate how annoying Lord Odious is, please do not kill anyone. As it would lead to others wanting you killed and I’ve already spent too much of my life trying to make sure you stay alive. Lest we forget I endured Finishing School for you. Of course, should you choose to kill him I could not stop you. And yes, I will help you bury the body.  
Your partner in crime,  
Enola

Dear Enola,  
I would never forget your harrowing time at Miss Harrison’s Finishing School. I am eternally in your debt for braving Horrible Harrison. Perhaps we can figure out a way to even the playing field?  
Yours eternally,  
The Viscount of Tewkesbury, The Marquess of Basilweather

It is the last letter that Enola does not respond to. One, it is right before their tea date. Two, she is so perplexed by the yours eternally she doesn’t know what to do. “Yours eternally?” she rants out loud to Mrs. Lane. “What could he possibly mean, yours eternally?”

Mrs. Lane coughs, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “I’m certain the young Lord was simply expressing his admiration for the young Lady.”

“There can be no admiration for the young Lady, Mrs. Lane!” Enola huffs, before storming up to her room and letting out an annoyed shriek.

The tea date comes all too soon. Enola wears a blue dress, and she finds Tewkesbury waiting for her. She storms across the room to him and, as he stands to take her chair, she shrieks, “Yours eternally????!”

Then promptly whacks him with her purse.

“Enola---” Tewkesbury puts up his elbow to block the swats. “Enola---I meant it. I was completely honest in what I said. I had to speak my feelings. You….you saved me. So I am yours, eternally, no matter what you decide you and I should be.”

Enola calms down long enough to stop hitting the young Lord with her purse. “I…I…I don’t know what I want,” she responds.

“That’s fine,” he says, “I don’t know what I want either. I just know that I want to be yours, alright? No matter what we are.”

Enola takes a deep breath. Then, to Tewkesbury’s surprise, she presses her forehead to his. “Yours, eternally,” she whispers, locking her fingers through his. He strokes her cheek, and he kisses her right there, ignoring the surprised gasps of the polite society in The Baker Street tea room.

Because all that mattered was her. Eternally.


End file.
